


Bruise

by owlsareheadturners



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mentions of Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:56:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlsareheadturners/pseuds/owlsareheadturners
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After training, when the locker room is full of light and shadows and bitter unrequited love. Angst galore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruise

The new bruise is the colour of ox hide in a traditional painting. Mottled and blotchy, it spills across his entire chest, turning deep plum at the uneven borders where destroyed blood vessels meet pale, dry flesh.

Haruna's fingers, slick with ointment, trace the edges with the touch of a butterfly landing on a flower petal. The sun slants across a sky the same colour as that bruise, and Abe slides his eyes slowly shut, the sun seeping through the crack in his eyelids, and breathes, in and then out again, in and then out again.

The locker room is deserted, just the way Haruna likes it when he's finished practice late, when there are only reds and oranges and leftover purples scattered in the sharp corners of the space, and nobody's forgotten shadow.

_Nothing can be explained, Takaya._

Haruna's breath flutters against his forehead, and Abe can feel the roughened, calloused tips of his fingers, where pitches have peeled off the edges with force, smoothing the places where those very same pitches have slammed into his body, where they have left Haruna's presence on him, painfully visible. Haruna has marked him, claimed him by violence.

_Especially not me._

Haruna is not a gentle person. This Abe knows. Yet it's at times like these that he genuinely starts to wonder if Haruna Motoki could have a real human heart. Haruna confuses him, shakes his logical world to the very core, to the point where Abe begins to doubt himself, wonders with shakes of his head if he's a masochist, or if there's something else that could be off in his already screwy mental makeup.

Haruna's right thumb starts on the edge of an older, reddish mark on his forearm from earlier this week, the result of a mistimed reaction, of Abe's own mistimed inability. Abe turns his head away, not wanting to look at the shiny smear Haruna has left there, on his skin.

If Abe is logic, is reason, Haruna is that one phenomenon that cannot be explained. Haruna lives in the world of the irrational, and Haruna soothes the cool fingers of his other hand across Abe's forehead, knuckles sliding down across cheek in an almost-caress. The side of Abe's face feels sticky, and warmth starts to spread from the places where Haruna's touched him. Abe feels fragile, because Haruna might choose to just get up at any time he wants and leave him right there, almost naked and alone with the dying sun and the shadows, in that angular locker room.

Haruna's fingers slip down his sides gently, straying further and further from the bruise on his chest, and Abe feels betrayed. Betrayed by Haruna, who won't even look straight at him in the bullpen, who has laughed and laughed when pitches have knocked Abe into a mouthful of dirt or when Abe gets his gear on backwards in the hurry to put it on between inning changes, Haruna, whose chest is now flush against his bare back, whose hands are now touching him with the tenderness of a lover.

Something wrenches hard in Abe's gut when Haruna begins to run the fingers of his left hand through Abe's hair now, like in the locker rooms, in front of everyone after training, but slowly, with more control, more precision.

If only he pitched like that.

Haruna on the mound is wild, is uncontrollable, is a volatile beast held back by pieces of string, and Abe both fears and desires that Haruna, that Haruna who, when he pulls his leg up high, penetrates Abe with his gaze. It looks like he's staring into eternity with every pitch, and the stars are reflected in his eyes.

"So many bruises, Takaya," Haruna's voice breathes next to his ear, and Abe shivers at the unexpected sensation, though it's not cold in here; converts the uncomfortable thumping in his chest to annoyance, an annoyance that breaks for a moment the hanging cobwebs of stillness that shimmer in the airless room.

"That... That was mostly your fault! Motoki-san, if you'd just try working on your control a bit more you might actually—"

Haruna shuts him up with a kiss. It lacks the tenderness of his touches— Haruna bites down briefly on his lower lip before letting Abe go, and now there's a noticeable flush creeping faint and low across Abe's cheeks. Haruna's stomach is still warm, curved against his back, pressed close.

"Control this, aim that. You're so noisy, Takaya," Haruna berates lazily, fingers back to spreading arnica ointment over the misshapen patch on Abe's chest, and despite himself Abe's heart has turned into a throbbing mess.

"You're the one who said you would catch all my pitches, you know."

Abe wonders if Haruna can feel his heartbeat, and almost as if reading his mind, Haruna's hand stops right over his heart, separated by layers of skin and flesh and ribcage, and pokes the skin there experimentally like he’s a child.

"It looks worse than all the ones you got before. Does it hurt, Takaya?"

"Not... that much, I guess." Abe replies. It is true—the cream has helped to dull the pain slightly.

“Does the cream work?" Haruna asks. "It had better—I spent the rest of my change on it, too.”

Abe replies in the affirmative, mumbles his thanks quickly.

Haruna chuckles, pleased with himself, then buries his face into Abe’s hair.

"I like you, Takaya,” he declares suddenly, voice muffled, and Abe’s palpitating heart goes into overdrive, and his fists clench despite himself, entire body tensing with shock.

Haruna must have sensed it too, because he laughs, patting Abe’s hair. “You’re really cute when you’re embarrassed, Takaya. I meant I like you 'cause you aren’t a scaredy-cat like the rest of them. You really piss me off sometimes, and your lead sucks like hell, but at least you’re brave. That's a good thing, you know."

Of course, none of Haruna’s compliments come without insults, as if Haruna is afraid of being too soft, but Abe basks in the rare praise all the same. It's as though the arnica cream that Haruna has rubbed into his skin has sunk down, deep down, and now Abe's warm, warm on the inside.

After a moment of silence, Haruna tugs at his hair, none-too-gently. “Oi, are you listening? You’re all quiet and moody like you broke up with a girl. I’d say you did, but with you all scrawny like that there’s no way any woman on Earth would want you. I’ve been trying to get you to talk for a while now, but you’re just ignoring me. I even complimented you, you idiot! You’re supposed say “thank you” when people do that, you know!” When Abe remains silent, Haruna continues, shaking Abe’s shoulders in an attempt to get him to respond.

“Say something, Takaya! You’re so noisy usually, going about control and leads and all that useless stuff that you piss me off, and yet you’re really quiet sometimes and it creeps me out. What’s going on in that brain of yours, huh?”

Abe mumbles something unintelligible, choosing to concentrate more on the patches of warmth where his skin contacts Haruna’s.

Haruna, growing tired of Abe’s lack of response, shoves him lightly, grumbling. "Get off; you’re heavy."

Abe does as he's told, crawling slowly off Haruna's chest, and Haruna sits up in the half-light, turning to face Abe, then, without warning, lifts Abe’s leg up to the light to examine his knee.

"Y'know, you've been walking weird lately. Something's definitely off with that knee of yours." He states it like it's a fact, but there's no way he can possibly be sure, because Abe knows that Haruna wouldn't take special notice of him, the other half of his battery or not. Haruna's just focused on himself, focused on going to the Pros. Abe would just be a wall to him.

A wall whose knee Haruna is now probing firmly but gently, rotating this way and that, peering left and right as if he has X-ray vision and can tell where Abe’s injury is just by looking. "You should go see a doctor if this gets worse, or it'll come back to haunt you in the future, and then you’ll be sorry. Does it hurt?"

Abe shakes his head mutely, then almost immediately regrets it.

Haruna stops his motions, then lifts his head and looks at him then, meeting his eyes for a full five seconds. Then he drops Abe's knee, pats it and sighs, his face half-shadowed.

"You're always gonna say that, aren't you. Whether it hurts or not, you're never going to say it does. That's just like you. Y'know, Takaya—there are some times where it's bravery, but sometimes where it's just downright pigheaded."

His tone is light-hearted, but Abe doesn't know how to react. This is sudden; makes his heart fall into a cold place because he knows that Haruna, as if by some uncanny knowing-Abe-like-the-back-of-his-hand instinct, has hit the nail on the head.

_If I can make it as a starter, I'll catch any pitch! I'll do anything!_

Haruna gets up, the folds of his slacks rippling in and out of the light as he stretches. The light hits his frame and doubles him over into a deep stretch to touch his toes, and he releases a groan at the tension, then straightens with an easy grace that stirs up something in Abe’s heart just looking at him.

"Go home, Takaya," he says with a half-smile that makes Abe's chest ache, and it's not just the bruise. “We’re done for today.”

And there's a note of finality in his voice, but some nuance that deludes Abe into thinking that his tone is reluctance, is longing. He flings Abe's shirt at him, and Abe catches the garment, but doesn’t put it on, just stares at Haruna’s silhouette undoing his bootlaces, kicking his boots off to the side. 

"Motoki-san," Abe manages, though he swallows his words halfway, cowers slightly when Haruna swings back to look at him, the sunset etching out light and dark, light and dark on his face. For a second, he looks murderous, terrible, almost like he’s going to rip Abe apart with his bare hands.

"What?" asks Haruna, blinking, eyes wide and curious, and Abe manages to breathe out, realises it’s just a trick of the light.

"Motoki-san, I—"

"You're cute," Haruna breathes, steps forward, wraps his arm around Abe's waist, and pulls him in close.

Abe doesn’t resist, lets Haruna kiss him deeply, lets Haruna’s sweat-soaked scent pervade his every molecule, lets Haruna press him back gently against the lockers to fumble at the waistband of his boxers.

His back sticks to the cold, smooth plastic, his skin unbearably hot as Haruna scrapes teeth into the hollow of Abe’s throat, drawing a soft moan as Abe’s fingers scrabble for purchase against the nubs of vertebrae that are Haruna’s spine, rippling beneath his skin, Abe’s blunt nails drawing lines of white as he gasps and shivers and moans, gabbles _ahh, agh Motoki—sa—aahh ahh hnn Moto, Motoki-san_ , squeezing his eyes shut as if by doing so Haruna won’t see the fierce blush across his cheeks and chest and spreading lower and lower under the intense cold-burn of the arnica.

Haruna is firm and not gentle, not gentle in the least, and why does he know how to liquify Abe’s bones so well, why does he know how to snap Abe’s back so that he’s limp and panting, his head on Haruna’s shoulder until Abe’s bad knee gives way and he half sits, half sinks to the floor where it presses cold against his bare ass. Haruna’s kissing again, and the heat of his hands have appeared beneath Abe’s thighs, sliding across Abe’s sweat-slick skin to his ass so that Haruna can hoist him up into a better position.

There is a sudden sharp, artificial burst of sound—shrill, electronic ringing against a background of buzzing in Haruna’s slack pocket, where it’s simultaneously pressed against the top of Haruna’s thigh and the fork of Abe’s legs. Ignoring Abe’s sensitivity-induced gasp, Haruna’s free hand moves to his pocket, the other still tracing Abe’s collarbone, and Abe realises, with some horror, that Haruna’s fingers exploring blind through the fabric are coming dangerously close to his crotch; they brush against him briefly before clutching the phone and withdrawing from the pocket. Haruna stops sucking on Abe’s skin, flick open the phone and answers.

“Hello?”

His voice carries no trace of a husky undertone, is his normal, standard “I’m-busy-and-you-still-had-the-guts-to-phone-me-be-prepared-to-deal-with-the-consequences” voice as he grunts, “Akimaru? You bastard, stop acting like my mother.”

A pause while Abe hears the hesitant murmurings of the voice on the other end.

“You what? No, I didn’t get run over by a bus. Yeah, I’m on my way home, dumbass. Dinner? Fine, I can stop by.”

More silence.

“Yeah, yeah, got it, see you, bye.”

Haruna jabs a button, and snaps the phone shut. Abe trembles, almost in anticipation.

It’s a while before Haruna turns his gaze back on Abe, as if he’s just realised that Abe existed.

“Oh, Takaya.”

Abe catches his gaze, sees the nonchalance in the deep brown eyes. He rises off Haruna’s lap slowly, the pins and needles starting to take effect a while later. He leans against the lockers for support, watching Haruna with all the stance of an injured animal ready to make its last stand against a predator.

Haruna’s finished packing; Abe doesn’t know how he managed to do that so fast. He pulls on a shirt, muscles shifting like smooth stones under skin, and Abe remembers the sensation of touching them, of Haruna touching him back. It makes him uncomfortable.

Before he knows it Haruna’s at the door, and stops there, face half-covered in shadow. Abe’s locker is still open off to the side, his shirt and slacks and socks and boots strewn like wreckage.

“You aren’t coming?” asks Haruna in the manner of an inquisitive child, leaning against the doorframe. The light catches his jaw and cradles it, cradles it like Abe wants to cradle it, wants to kiss, to brush and paint with his lips.

Abe turns his head to look slowly at the mess they’ve made, the mess he alone will have to clean.

“You aren’t... staying?” he tries to say, but his parched, over-kissed throat doesn’t respond anymore, and so the words emerge in a croak, like a frog struggling over the edge of a well.

“What was that?” asks Haruna.

Abe clears his throat, painfully.

“Nothing.”

It takes Haruna a few more seconds to answer. “Well, guess I’ll be going then. I got dinner at Akimaru’s. I hope they made something nice today...” His voice trails off. No doubt he is already imagining the crisp of tonkatsu between his teeth, the smear of white rice against his chopsticks and the roof of his mouth. Abe turns away then, under the pretence of folding his slacks, to hide the stiffness in his legs and between his thighs.

“You better get going, too, Takaya,” says Haruna, but his voice is little more than a pleasant sounding blur through the pounding of Abe’s head, the sickening rush of his blood.

“You’re gonna need to hurry, or you’ll miss the last train, and I’ll laugh at you if you end up walking all the way home!” Abe has little capacity to pay any attention to what is being said; all he can hear is the buzzing in his head, settling upon his ears like a veil.

He nods, throat swollen and dry.

The door closes with a final snap behind him.

All is silence, and stillness, and the confusion of dark and light.

When he is sure Haruna is completely, totally gone, and that he is alone, with nothing but the last, fading rays of sun, Abe folds a hand to his chest.

It hurts, but not because of the new bruise. It hurts, as surely as the pulses of blood through his veins, as that steady thump-thump-thump of his heart. No amount of arnica ointment could ever cure the swelling of _that_ bruise. Abe wants to weep, but he doesn’t have the tears to, anymore, so instead he slumps back against the lockers, hand slipping into his boxers, and jerks himself off to the tune of his own, desperate cries.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
